


A Child in Our Midst

by hato



Series: Untitled Series [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-30
Updated: 2012-05-30
Packaged: 2017-11-06 06:41:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/415913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hato/pseuds/hato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is doing a favor for Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock is not helpful. Except when he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Child in Our Midst

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. This particular version belongs to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC. 
> 
> A/N: Can be read as friendship or pre-slash. Occurs sometime between S1Ep2 and S1Ep3.  
> Inspired by: Baby Mine, from Disney’s Dumbo

“ What is she doing here?”   
  
John looks up from his laptop, frowns disapprovingly at his flatmate and rolls his eyes. Sherlock’s tone is amusing, though. More appropriate for a wife questioning the presence of a mistress. Not for the ginger toddler quietly playing on the sofa beside John with a stack of wooden picture frames that he had found in a corner of the sitting room.  They hadn’t seemed too important or altered in some way by Sherlock so John had deemed them reasonably safe. “ You’ve known Sophie for months now. In fact, she came up for tea only yesterday with Mrs. Hudson.”   
  
“ Sophie,” the girl parrots back, almost absently as she rubs a frame against her jumper.  A vibrant blue affair, with a rotund elephant balancing a pink heart on its trunk. John thinks it is quite possibly the most adorable  jumper he’s ever seen.  Makes his own reliable cable-knit seem duller than usual.   
  
“ That’s not the point.” Sherlock frowns at them both, one hand holding his dressing gown pinned to one hip, the other holding a long pipette of some faintly yellow liquid. John gets a whiff of ammonia. “ Why is she here? “   
  
“  She’s been in the kitchen twice already. Even said hullo. Did you really not know she was here?”  John uses his overly patient voice, not wanting to upset their small guest or waste too much energy on being upset with Sherlock. It rarely gets him any results.   
  
“ Lahlock.” Sophie points at Sherlock. And pulls a rather respectable scowl to her chubby face.   
  
John beams and just barely contains his laughter. “ Well done, Sophie!”   
  
Sherlock merely deepens his own scowl.  Deadpans. “ Bravo. Now tell me why she’s sitting in our flat, mucking about with my things, and filling the place with the scent of apple juice and stale biccies. Among other things. ”   
  
John sighs and looks back down at his screen, double checking his spelling. “ Mrs. Hudson is watching her this week while her parents are in Brighton. She had an old friend call up unexpectedly, wanting to meet up and have a pint or whatever little old ladies do when they get together,  and asked me to look after her for a bit. ”   
  
“ This is not a daycare, John! “  Sherlock swings the pipette around in a wild gesture of dissatisfaction. A drop of the liquid escapes and patters onto the carpet, small hiss and whisp of smoke appearing. “ I’m working!”   
  
“ Thanks for reminding me. No experiments with volatile or noxious materials today, alright? So take that back to the kitchen. ” John barely glances up at the vehement protest, quickly cutting off the next.  “ And you are not currently working on a case, or I would not have agreed to bring her up.” He finishes another paragraph and checks on his small charge.  
  
Sophie is intent on a small oak frame with tulips carved on its border. Handling it a bit awkwardly, it falls out of her grasp and hits the carpet with a muffled thud.  John finds it’s actually quite entertaining to watch her as she struggles to figure out exactly what happened. He can practically see the gears turning in her 16-month-old mind, see her working out how to get the frame back. He wonders if this is what Sherlock sees when he’s watching John attempting his own deductions.  Sophie finally rolls to the side, getting a good grip on John’s denims, and backs off the sofa until her toes touch the rug.  She grabs the frame and, still using his leg for balance, climbs back into her spot.  Sophie grins and giggles and claps her hands in self-congratulations. John chuckles. He’s instantly reminded of Sherlock’s little fits of smug happiness. “ Good job, sweetheart!”   
  
“ Dohn! Dohn!” She wiggles and waves the rescued frame about.   
  
Sherlock throws up his hands in disgust and returns to the kitchen. Dressing gown swishing about his pyjama clad legs in a melodramatic fashion.   
  
John gives his own self-satisfied grin to no one in particular and cracks on with his blog.   
  
\-----------  
  
Sophie is an exceptionally well behaved child, in John’s opinion.  Not that he’s dealt with small children on a regular basis in his personal life, but working at the surgery has given him a fair amount of experience with kids.  Actual prolonged contact, to passing observation. In a wide variety of personality types (and hence, parenting styles).  From the squalling infants to the frustrated toddlers to the utterly out of control primary school  kids.  John feels confident that Sophie would be considered by most parents to be an ‘absolute angel’.  
  
Before Sherlock had even discovered her presence in the flat, John had watched with a hint of apprehension as the little girl poked about their sitting room.  Obviously curious.  Normally, Mrs. Hudson keeps her rather close at hand, usually on her lap or in the chair next to her while they have tea. John isn’t sure if the landlady is more afraid of Sophie damaging something of theirs or of her getting into something of Sherlock’s that is decidedly not child-safe.  He certainly can’t blame her. For either fear.   
  
But Sophie had merely toddled around, clear blue eyes taking everything in and that was a bit disconcerting how much it resembled Sherlock entering a crime scene. Utter focus. Objective observation. Absorbing every detail.   John had followed her, keeping just one step behind, happily answering her questioning looks and pointing finger.  And ready to avert potentially calamitous incidents.   
  
She had found Sherlock quickly enough and John did nothing to stop her from approaching. Sherlock was only staring into his microscope, not blowing up beakers or cooking severed thumbs, so John thought it safe enough.  Sophie had walked two big circles around the kitchen table,  opened one cupboard to look at the pots, and said a quick “ Hullo, Lahlock,” before coming back to John’s side.   
  
Sherlock grunted something in reply, but never looked up.   
  
After that, John felt better about having her in the flat. He allowed Sophie to lead him back to the bookcases where she promptly pointed at a large dictionary. John thought it odd, but shrugged and pulled the book down. He snagged his laptop from the table and they both settled onto the sofa. John worked on his blog. Sophie flipped through the pages of the dictionary.  
  
After the dictionary, she went through the magazines on the coffee table, lining them up precisely and then stacking them up, then lining them up again. John was quick to put the papers and tabloids out of sight.   
  
After the magazines, she played with John’s shoes for a bit. John had chuckled and pulled them off for the girl to try on. An incredibly amusing quarter hour for them both.    
  
After the shoes, she had wandered around -John watching her from the sofa- and ventured again into the kitchen.  John heard a cupboard opening and closing, the familiar childish pronunciation of Sherlock’s name, and Sherlock’s absent “ Good, good...”  
  
Then she returned to the sitting room, found the frames and played very happily for nearly an hour, despite Sherlock’s grouchy appearance midway.   
  
With Sherlock once again thoroughly entrenched in whatever experiment- and John certainly didn’t want to know anything about it- and Sophie entranced by the simple action of crawling onto and slipping off of the chair, John finishes his blog sooner rather than later.   
  
And realizes he’s starving.  John hasn’t had anything since breakfast. He knows Sherlock hasn’t eaten anything since yesterday. Mrs. Hudson said Sophie had eaten a fair amount for elevenses, but John figures it’s about time for the girl to eat again. “ Hungry, Sophie?”   
  
Sophie teeters precariously on the edge of the chair. Her small brows draw together in confusion.   
  
“ Eat?” John tries another word. Lifts his hand to his mouth in pantomime.   
  
Recognition dawns. Sophie beams and promptly slides off the chair, bum hitting the floor. “ Eat, eat, eat.”  She stumbles up and immediately heads toward the kitchen at a fast clip.  Clever girl.   
  
John carefully scoops her up before she crosses the threshold. “ I think take-away is best, sweetheart. We don’t keep much in the way of edibles in there.” He grimaces at the thought of what is currently occupying the icebox.    
  
“ Change her nappie for God’s sake.”   
  
John startles, whirling around with Sophie still in his arms. “ What?”  He’d thought Sherlock had completely forgotten about them.  His flatmate is staring at a collage of petri dishes on the kitchen table, writing out cryptic notes without looking at the paper or at John and his charge.   
  
The muscles in Sherlock’s jaw work visibly under the skin. “ She’s needed a change for the past thirteen minutes. Is your sense of smell defective?”  Snark blunted by his diverted attention. Typical.   
  
“ I can smell that bloody awful mess you’ve got bubbling in the microwave. “  John frowns, eyeing the beaker of questionable liquid boiling in the microwave. He’s certain that ammonia smell is going to linger.   Sherlock doesn’t respond, instead flicks on the blowlamp and adjusts the flame height.  John rolls his eyes and lifts Sophie up, nose not quite touching  the seat of her little cargo pants. Damn.  He puts her down, bending slightly to take her hand. Tosses back over his shoulder, “ Chinese or Thai?”   
  
“ Indian.” Contrary bastard.   
  
John decides to nick Sherlock’s wallet to pay, out of simple spite. With a huge tip for the delivery. He grabs the large satchel Mrs. Hudson packed along with Sophie and leads her back through the kitchen, toward the bathroom. “ This way. We’ll get you cleaned up and order some grub and hope the great git doesn’t burn the place down.”   
  
\----------  
  
  
John is very proud of himself.    
  
He’d manage to order their food while simultaneously changing the soiled nappie that wasn’t nearly as horrible as all the sitcoms made it out to be. Not exactly pleasant, but as a medical man John had experienced much worse and Sophie was extremely cooperative during the entire process. She even reminded him to apply the talc. A bit heavy handed with it, John supposed, , judging by Sherlock’s flared nostrils when they exited the loo.   
  
Lunch had arrived and John made no secret of taking Sherlock’s notes to pay for it. He cleared the table in the sitting room, placing his Union Jack pillow in the chair next to his, and firmly requested Sherlock’s presence. In two ticks, the food had been plated and all three tucked in with great enthusiasm.   
  
John had ordered pakora for Sophie, who inhaled them with barely a pause to drink from her sippy cup between bites.  He ended up sharing his chicken korma with her once she began pointing and looking at him with the begging-puppy-eyes that John could never refuse on anyone.    
  
When he returned from freshening their drinks, John found Sophie calmly sticking her fork and fingers into Sherlock’s plate of lamb vindaloo.  Sherlock continued to eat as though he did not notice the theft.  Sophie continued to eat as though she did not notice the spiciness of the dish. John shook his head and didn’t question it.   
  
Dividing up the last of the naan between himself and Sophie, John casts a glance at Sherlock standing in front of the window.  Instead of retreating back into the kitchen/lab the moment after finishing his food, Sherlock had ambled casually around the flat, hands in the pockets of the dressing gown.  Until he eventually reached the window and remained. Staring. Deep in thought, as Sherlock was wont.  John watches him for a moment and shrugs to himself. Sherlock doesn’t seem unusually irritated or out of sorts. Not whinging about being bored. Not exactly pouting.   
  
“ Ah dun, Dohn.” Sophie’s high voice pipes up at his side.   
  
John puts his full attention back on her and laughs. Her face is covered in chutney and yogurt sauce. Bits of naan litter the table in front of her plate and the front of her jumper.  John removes the worst of it with a tea towel, then hauls the girl into the bathroom for a proper scrubbing. There’s still a light dusting of talc over everything in the room.  He’ll get to that later.   
  
Back in the sitting room, Sherlock has not moved. John goes about clearing the table, washing up the few dishes and checking the rug for any dropped bits.  Sophie finds a stack of old nature books in a pile on the floor beside Sherlock’s chair.  Having observed her earlier behavior with books, John says nothing when she claims one. A field guide on insects in the UK. He picks up a medical journal from his own stash near the sofa and settles comfortably in one corner, keeping his eye on both Sherlock and Sophie.   
  
So quiet. There’s a bit of rustling across the room. John lowers his magazine. Sophie is swapping out the field guide. He catches a glimpse of the new cover. Birds of the Americas. John looks back down at his article on suturing techniques and gets lost in the varying patterns.  
  
A soft shuffling. Nearer and nearer. John assumes Sophie is heading toward the sofa.  When she doesn’t tug on his leg after a few moments,  he raises his eyes over the edge of the journal. Gaze widening, breath halted.   
  
Sophie is edging her way between Sherlock and the wall. One little hand gripping his ridiculously expensive dressing gown. Field guide clutched in the other, close to her chest.  John watches as she calmly plops down at Sherlock’s feet, on his feet, and opens the book.  Sherlock doesn’t bat a lash.   
  
Quiet little whispers and random, muted sounds.  Several mutilated names. _Lahlock_ and _Dohn_ and _Miz Huzzin_.  John stares.  Sophie is slowly turning through the pages, obviously naming the various pictures after people within her small social circle.  And essentially reading to Sherlock.  Occasionally, she lifts the open book, displaying a particularly fancy bird.  When Sherlock ignores her, Sophie merely puts it back in her lap and continues her mangled monologue, completely unfazed.  
  
A spark of anger flares in John’s chest. Just for a tiny moment. It wouldn’t kill Sherlock to acknowledge the poor girl. Give a simple nod and kind word. He almost calls to Sophie, to encourage her to climb onto the sofa beside him. Away from Sherlock. To keep her company and make up stories about the exotic birds.   
  
But he doesn’t. John gets his breath back and swallows the impulse. Sherlock isn’t doing anything wrong. He’s not berating Sophie. He’s not discouraging her. He’s not even removing his bare feet out from under her though the buttons on her back pockets can’t feel all that wonderful on his toes.  
  
John knows it’s quite possible that Sherlock doesn’t even realize that Sophie is sitting there. It wouldn’t surprise him in the least. Not uncommon for the man to completely zone out, mentally disregarding everything outside his Mind Palace.  That’s it, then. John goes back to his journal, secure in the knowledge that Sophie isn’t bothering Sherlock and the worst Sherlock can do is step away and cause the girl to lose her warm seat.   
  
John relaxes back into the world of half-curved ski and non-swaged needles.   
  
\----------  
  
Eventually, Sherlock does move away, sliding his feet out before turning on heel and re-entering the kitchen.   John watches just long enough to make sure that Sophie isn’t upset by the sudden change.  She looks up from her book (this one a guide on dog breeds), gaze following Sherlock until he disappears around the corner.  “ Lahlock? “  Sophie turns her attention to John. “ Lahlock bye-bye?”    
  
“ We can look at the book together, if you’d like, Sophie.”  John smiles gently and closes his medical journal. He pats the sofa cushion next to him. “ Or we can watch the telly.” He remembers suddenly.” Or Paddington? Your mum put Paddington into your bag.”  John had noticed the DVD in his earlier search for nappies.   
  
He’s about to get up to retrieve it when Sophie’s face erupts in a face splitting yawn.  She actually stumbles a bit from the violence of the involuntary gesture.   
  
John scans the room. The wall clock reads 14:37. Bollocks. He vaguely remembers Mrs. Hudson mentioning something about Sophie sleeping in the afternoon. Around 13:00.  Bollocks again. John decides better late than never. “ Bit sleepy, I see.  Ready for a kip?”   
  
Sophie nails John with a heavy lidded look. Then her face crumples. John is startled off the sofa as the first high pitched wail bursts free. Sophie follows it up with another and another, each scream more drawn out and rough edged than the one before. John doesn’t know how she’s taking in air between the banshee-like shrieks.   
  
For the first few seconds, John can only stare, wide eyed,  in horror and disbelief. What in bloody hell is happening?!   
  
Amazingly, there’s not a peep from Sherlock.   
  
“ Night-night!” Sophie sobs and gasps, then lets loose with another pathetic wail. Shaking from head to toe.   
  
John gets a hold of himself and skirts the edge of the coffee table. He picks Sophie up, her tears quickly soaking through the collar of his shirt, wetting the shoulder of his jumper.  John screws up his face, turns his head a bit.  Sophie does not curb the volume of her screams, even so close to John’s ear. “ Shhhhh, there, there.  Just a nap. ” He pats her back, holds her close.  To no avail. If anything, Sophie’s vocalizations become even louder.   
  
Who is this panicked creature and where is the happy little cherub he’d watched all afternoon?    
  
Panicking himself, not wanting to disturb Sherlock or the neighbors or the casual passerby on the street who must think he’s murdering the poor girl, John starts walking around the flat. Carefully bouncing Sophie in his arms in that soothing way he’s seen the mothers do in the surgery waiting room.    
  
Around the sitting room. Down stairs. Back upstairs. Downstairs again. All the way up to his bedroom where she immediately throws a fit for John’s dressing gown draped over a chair back.  John attempts to lay Sophie on his bed, hoping the blankets and pillows and his ratty flannel robe will be enough to send her off to Dreamland.  No such luck. Sophie’s screams take on an almost hysterical edge and John grabs her back up before the police are called. He can only imagine Lestrade’s rant at getting that particular call.   
  
John swears he’s never heard this kind of commotion from next door, Sophie’s home. And their walls aren’t that thick.  He’s dealt with frantic patients before, of all ages. Calmed soldiers missing most of their limbs. Assured mangled car collision victims in the A&E.  For fuck’s sake, John can usually get the children in the surgery to crack a smile for him while discussing the upcoming vaccination they’ve been screaming about since they stepped foot in the office.  
  
Defeated, but too stubborn to quit, John shuffles slowly back downstairs. Stands on the landing, not wanting to take another flight of steps, not wanting to push Sherlock’s tolerance by re-entering the flat. He idly wonders if this will permanently damage his hearing.  “ Sophie, Sophie... it’s alright, sweetheart. Just a little kip and then-”  
  
“ NIGHT NIGHT!” Sophie bawls directly in John’s ear, tiny hands clutching his jumper and the dressing gown caught between them. Desperate. Terrified. “ No night night!”   
  
John releases a heavy sigh and opens the flat door. He’ll grab his laptop and the DVD and take the girl to his bedroom to watch the movie until she tuckers out or Mrs. Hudson returns for her and John dreads the disappointed lecture he’s sure the woman will have for him and his lack of caregiving skills.   
  
He’s digging around in the overstuffed nappie bag when Sherlock flies by in his peripheral. John claims the DVD and moves toward his laptop. The first notes of the violin are obscured by Sophie’s noise and John’s temper flares. Instead of helping, Sherlock is just going to try to drown her out with his own mad caterwauling. John grits his teeth, shifts his hold on Sophie to ease the growing ache in his weak shoulder. Practically shouting over the din. “ Sherlock, that’s not...”   The rest dies in his mouth as he turns. Catches sight of Sherlock in the same moment that he begins to recognize the tune.   
  
Sherlock, carelessly elegant pose in front of the fireplace. Embracing his violin, eyes shut in concentration as he drags the bow across the strings.  Beautiful, sonorous notes filling the flat in a slow, lilting melody.   
  
John realizes he’s gaping, claps his mouth shut.   
  
He also realizes that Sophie is now merely sobbing in that gaspy, shuddery way instead of screaming bloody murder.  John drops the DVD onto the sofa and focuses on patting the girl’s back, still rocking slightly in place.  He doesn’t dare try to hum along with the music.  Watches Sherlock as he plays. Mesmerized.   
  
The little body in his arms begins to relax, slumping heavily against his shoulder. Warm breath on his collar evening out.  John risks a glance down to see the blue eyes hidden behind pale lids and red-gold lashes.  Little hand dropping limp against his chest.  
  
Sophie is asleep. Asleep!   
  
John oh so carefully eases the child onto the sofa, covering her with his dressing gown. He feels a bit odd about that, but Sophie’s asleep and not testing the limits of his hearing and sanity so to hell with his sense of propriety.  John gently brushes some fine red curls from her forehead. Looks up as the last note warbles and fades away. Sherlock pauses, as though savoring the quiet, then opens his eyes and turns to put his violin back into its case.  John reins in his excitement just enough to keep from jumping off the sofa, managing to roll to his feet with minimum disturbance to the child resting there.   
  
Incredulous. Relieved. Ridiculously relieved. But John can’t stop staring at Sherlock. Can barely find his tongue to speak. “ That piece...”   
  
“ Don’t.”  Sherlock’s voice is carefully measured, but hard as stone. His hands lovingly caress the wooden case as he closes it.   
  
“ But,” John wants to laugh. A gleeful, uninhibited, utterly overjoyed laugh. “ Have you ever even seen Dumbo?”  He takes great pleasure in following Sherlock back into the kitchen, watching his expression range from tightly controlled to faltering, unmoved to irritatingly embarrassed.  
  
“ Of course not.” Sherlock snaps back. Shoves his face against the eyepiece lens, long fingers adjusting the dials below.   
  
John waits, hands in his back pockets. Unable to wipe away the expectant smile. Willing to wait as long as necessary. Because he must have this mystery solved. For his own personal curiosity.   
  
Sherlock sighs, but doesn’t take his focus from his slides. “ Mycroft convinced me it was an experimental Bach composition. “  Lifts up to flash John a defensive glare. “ I was only four.”   
  
John doesn’t reply verbally. Though a question begs to be asked, balances on the tip of his tongue so he clamps his mouth tightly shut.    
  
 _Then why didn’t you delete it?_  
  
But John only mutters an , “ Alright.”  He raises his hands in supplication, nodding, dulling his smile in deference to Sherlock’s pride.  John backs out of the kitchen, leaving Sherlock to have his strop on. Stands in the middle of the sitting room, glancing between his flatmate and his sleeping charge. Hands in his pockets again, rocking slightly on his heels.   
  
Inside, John feels a giddy warmth. A soft affection for the little girl and the man-child, both placed in his care. 

  
\-------------------

end 


End file.
